


maybe, yes

by orphan_account



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The minute he walks into the room, you know this is going to be nothing but trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe, yes

**Author's Note:**

> for my lovely Roberta. Words could not express how much you mean to me. You deserve the world. Also, unbeta'd - so hopefully I didn't mess it up too badly!

He’s seventeen - _seventeen_ \- and you’re twenty and that’s neverminding the fact that he is, in fact, a he, without that handy little ‘s’ in front that would make this even a little bit alright.

His hair is short but he ducks his head like he’s used to hiding behind it, something to shade those big brown doe eyes that’d put Bambi to shame. His wrists are slender, a like a girl except not, and everything about him makes you think of some kind of bird, all hollow bones inside.

Yep, you’re definitely screwed.

Someone nudges you and you nod, agreeing to god knows what in favor of sneaking what you think are stealthy little glances in his direction. Then he’s in the booth and, yeah, you’re never going to be able to get that voice out of your head.

\-- -- --

The thing is, life sort of sucks. Meaning that things just fall into your lap. Meaning that you’re a coward and he’s a minor and you’re just stupid enough to talk yourself out of whatever this is with your excuses.

It feels sort of like running out of gas fifteen miles outside of town. Sure you could walk the rest of the way, but waiting for a tow is easier. Less stress on your heart, in a lot of ways.

\-- -- --

The next time you see him he’s playing at a bar. You’re pretty sure he’s not even old enough to be in here, but no one seems to mind, eyes tracking him from every direction while he sings some song that’s either about love or death, something addictive about his voice.

You wrap your fingers around the beer in your hands, let the condensation drip over your knuckles and think _maybe maybe_. Except, life has that way about it, bad timing and all and the first thing you see when he steps off the stage is this girl, bottle blonde and pretty pink mouth pressed against his cheek, mile wide smile radiating off his face. So you take every itch and urge and you press it down down deep because that smile means more than anything and you can’t bear to be the one that pulls it from his face, least not for unrequited feelings.

\-- -- --

And well, you know where the story goes from there, time doing it’s thing marching onward and life continuing to suck in it’s myriad of ways, but you just let the tide of things wash you along, sometimes on top of the wave and too many times below. But always, always forward motion, at the very least.

You follow along and you keep those things that you aren’t supposed to feel tucked down deep inside, creeping out in lyrics that are anonymous enough to disguise their true intent. You watch him fall in love, ignore the ache in your chest and work your way through too many failed attempts at substitution. You let it go, because you’re a coward and you have no faith in life not following through with it’s trend of suckage once more.

\-- -- --

Except maybe, maybe life has it’s own agenda going on. Maybe there’s some kind of plan behind all this. Maybe you’re just getting emo and philosophical because of the amount of alcohol in your bloodstream. Anything is possible.

Regardless, life has brought you to this place; a crossroad of sorts and the choice seems crystal clear, even though your heart has this tendency to cloud things. See, you’ve got this chance, this golden ticket to your dreams, but only maybe. Maybe you’re Charlie Bucket or maybe you’re Veruca Salt, just waiting for the world to call you a bad egg and send you down the garbage chute. Both results require you to step outside this little safety net you’ve built yourself, require you to get on a plane and literally walk away.

And we all know that courage maybe isn’t your strong suit.

So you put the golden ticket in your pocket and you watch the days pass by on your calendar, clock tick tocking it’s way forward. And you think _maybe maybe_.

\-- -- --

With the track record you’ve got, it isn’t surprising that he’s the one that finds the ticket. You’re too drunk to remember why he’s in your wallet, but it doesn’t matter when he pulls it out, fingers flattening the sharp crease created by the weight of your body against leather. It’s only fair, considering the weight that a little piece of paper could put on your shoulders. He opens the little square, realization dawning instantly because out of the pair of you he’s always been smarter, sharper, never mind your vocabulary.

He looks at you and you know he knows. You know he’s got you figured out, that you’re ignoring it like an ostrich with its head in the sand while the tide rushes in to drown you. And then realization crosses to determination, those big brown eyes that have always turned you inside out zeroing in on you and he tells you, like it’s just as simple as that, ‘You’re going.’

And you know you’re drunk, because all you want to do suddenly is lay on the ground even though you’re definitely outside and it is definitely January. Maybe the snow will keep you from being such an idiot.

‘I can’t’, you say.

Maybe not then.

Then he just gives you this look, like clearly you’re an idiot who doesn’t know what’s best for yourself – which is probably the truth, but still very disconcerting when you’re drunk.

‘Why not?’

‘I love you.’

So yeah, the snow’s not doing anything to keep your idiocy in check.

The thing is, he doesn’t really look surprised about it. In fact, he’s still giving you that look, the one that makes you feel like an idiot. And yeah, you know this, but your ego’s starting to sting a little from all the reminders. Especially when he comes straight out and tells you.

‘Christ Dave, you’re an idiot.’

Except then he kisses you, and you’re pretty sure you’re okay with being an idiot for the rest of your life if it means you get to do this, feel those should be hollow bones under your hands.

And he says, ‘whenever you come back, next week or six months, I’m gonna be right here.’

And for once, you think, life doesn’t suck, and your heart stops beating  _maybe maybe_   and changes to _yes_.  
 


End file.
